A suggestion for the world at large, and quite a lot about canoes.

Recently, I've become a bit worried about the world. Not so much in a "my god, Mr President, will you take a look at these print-outs?" kind of way, more in a "so, how was school today, world? You... you don't want to talk about it? You never want to talk about it. Want some milk? Oh, ok... bye... *whispers* you always used to love milk..." kind of way. It's a concern born of love, of the knowledge of potential, and the sneaking suspicion that , day by day, it's being thoroughly wasted. And the worst thing of all is that I'm pretty sure I know exactly what the problem is. Partially because I'm really arrogant, but mainly because I'm utterly, utterly brilliant.

Let's for a minute, imagine that we've been transported to some other planet (I think there are a few films re this topic, if you need a visual), a planet where the creatures LOOK and SOUND and WEAR COATS and GET HAIRCUTS just like us, only with one small difference. They're totally and utterly obsessed with canoeing. They bloody love it. Day in, day out, they practice their canoeing, read up on it, talk about it, host TV shows about it, put their careers on hold for it, judge others by their skill in it, cry over it, write books about it, dedicate millions of Flarbs to ie (flarbs being their global currency, keep up), and generally centre their entire consciousnesses around it. Bloody canoeing. They love it. Except, actually they don't. They're knackered by the constant oar-upkeep, the need to understand the latest in current-flow, the daily need to inspect their...like... wood bits (could have chosen an example that I knew literally anything about, but oh no, fuckssake tash) and as a planet, every other industry suffers because value is placed on this utterly arbitrary talent. When asked if they'd rather have a plumber who was good at canoeing or no, there'd be no question. Canoe-expert, of course. In a mate, canoeing prowess is not only expected, but necessary. Want to choose an airline service? "Do the adverts have CANOES IN???", they'd yell desperately. And when we, baffled humans that we are, dropped into this world of madness, quietly say "but, being good at canoeing doesn't really matter, right? At all? Except for people who...like... canoe for a living? And there can't be very many of them, surely?" we'd be met only with the aggressive stare of a nation who know outsiders could never understand.

Now, let's start again, but replace the word "canoeing" with "being objectively attractive". OH MY GOD IT'S THE STATUE OF LIBERTY WE'VE BEEN HERE ALL ALONG DR ZAIUS.

Why is it that we require our singers to be attractive? Are they any less talented if they've got a (susan) boil for a face? What about our actors and actresses? If art is supposed to imitate life, shouldn't it be that those we watch look sort of, like us? Authors, when they're interviewed for the Proper Magazines - why do they have to look so free from human face failings? When people advertise perfume, why don't they say what the perfume smells like, instead of having a nineteen year old with wet lips pick up an oversize bottle and whisper "moist". If a perfume advert had some bloke on it scratching his face and going "erm... smells a bit like guinness and hay, i think", I'd buy it. Partially cos of the moral stand-point thing, but also damn if I don't love the scent of the boozy emerald isle. Why does this thing that has absolutely no bearing on any tangible skill control every aspect of our culture?

Beyonce's Run The World sheen-vomit really, really pissed me off. And I don't really get pissed off, cos it gives you wrinkles. Being Empowered is not the same as Being Objectively Beautiful. Being beautiful, actually, doesn't matter. It's useless. You can't heat it up and eat it, you can't put it in a bag and take it to the Poor Kids, you can't build a delightful Italian taverna out of it, it doesn't make you laugh, it doesn't inspire you to DO GOOD - all it ever does, ever, is make you wonder what you can do to be more like It. Gok Wan has, sadly, missed the point. "GET WOMEN FEELING BEAUTIFUL NO MATTER WHAT THEIR SIZE" - WHY? WHY DO WE NEED TO? WHY DO WE NEED TO FEEL BEAUTIFUL? We do, of course, is the sad truth of it. We do, otherwise no-one would shag us. But if THAT is the only goal - physical phwoarness means members of our preferred gender might give us one, aren't we giving beauty a credence it doesn't really deserve?

Thing is, it's one of those problems that doesn't have a solution, isn't it? Yeah, I could stop shaving my legs (why on earth do I do that? Why? How odd. What an odd thing that is) and stop wearing makeup and channel my self-worth entirely into something actually worthy of worth, but it's too late for grassroots. Fear is too powerful, and that's what it really comes down to. I'm ashamed to say it, but I'm just the same. We're all racing racing racing towards the sunlight, laughing laughing laughing as we grit our teeth and try and hide the fact that we've all got a stitch and want to go home, because this is the race, and its SO MUCH FUN and if you stop, that's it. Everyone else is gone, and you're left in the darkness. Everyone pretends that Trying To Be Beautiful is a right lark; shiny bathrooms, white pillows and cheerfully overdubbed Swedish models, but it isn't (trust me, this ivory face of mine has been nothing but a curse). It's a ticking timer; a man at the bottom of the ferris wheel tapping at his watch and spitting into the grass.

I have a solution though. I actually do. But unfortunately, it's sort of a solution that requires Really Massively Famous people to do something quite tricky- stop trying to make us feel awful all the time. Stop placing value on a thing that has ABSOLUTELY no bearing on talent, on intelligence, on wit and on worth. Does J K Rowling need soft focus lighting to talk about Pottermore? No. Does Julia Roberts looking 28 until she dies prove she can act? No. Does Caitlin Moran, feminist of the pub or whatever, need to put a lovely picture of herself on the front cover of her book in order to write eloquently? No.

I'm aware that I'm sort of going off on a "women women poor women" tangent here, but honestly, that isn't really my point. All I would say is, that if women world-wide threw their mascara away tomorrow, men would still shag us. Trust me. Men are dead easy. But out of fear that that one woman, that one sneaky woman would keep it hidden triumphantly in her bag and betray us all with beauty, all of us clutch our weapons all the closer. It's just canoeing, though. It doesn't matter. It's canoeing, only without the subsequent endorphin rush and fairly bad-ass bruising. I throw down a gauntlet to you, influential people of this world. At your next photoshoot, refuse the beauty treatment. Just look like what you are, a human with a normal human face that does the things that human faces do. Start showing young girls and lads that beauty is fine, but that, actually, it doesn't matter. Like painting the Mona Lisa on the world's most powerful telescope - it's nice and all, but could you get out of the way now, please, there's sort of some science we need to be getting on with.

We are so much more interesting than an ideal. Especially an ideal that only serves to make us feel like crap. Come on Beyonce, we may not be ready for your jelly, but to be honest, your jelly is sort of beside the point.

In light of all the problems, I have come up with a solution to the problems.

OK. So its fairly obvious to me (and if something's fairly obvious to me, its generally because I've heard it being repeated quite loudly a number of times and possibly someone's written it on my body somewhere) that the reason our Christmas number 1 has become such a marker for controversy is the same reason that Aragorn drove Sauron's armies out of Mount Doom. It's a diversion.

The real problem here, a problem that seems to take up an inordinate amount of space in our precious broadsheets and in my arguably more precious brain  is not that Simon Cowell has been sharpening the music poking holes in our babies' soft, pliable ears. Or that some countries don't have any food (stay with me). The problem isn't that they don't know it's Christmas time, or that we live in a Mad World. The reason Christmas number one has, all of a sudden, had so much ballast, bull-hock and baubles made of pure, unadulterated shit-foxes plastered all over it is, actually, because no-one - I mean no-one - can remember how to write a Christmas song. We have to pour whipped politics over the meringue of our Christmas, so that no-one notices that the sugar and eggs of this metaphor have gone horribly wrong.

It only really occurred to me this year. This year, when the slebs of music decided to record the sound of silence in order to best the power of The X Factor. When ALL OF THE MUSICIANS IN BRITAIN couldn't actually put up a decent FIGHT against Matt Cardle's Some Biffy Song That All The Fans Will Say Isn't As Good As The Original And Those Who Actually Buy It Wont Know Who Biffy Clyro Is But Will Suspect He Is One Of The Bears From In The Night Garden (Are There Even Bears In That? I Don't Know. Probably. But There Are Random Creatures Whose Pants Fall Down. Seriously. Is That Legal? They're Puppets And Stuff. But Still. It's A Bit Weird.)

Honestly though. Think about it. All of the celebs in music world recording John Cage's 4"33 is the schoolyard equivalent of the big kid in school warily eying up the wiry young upstart with the dad who rumour has it taught him real kung-fu n that, and going "I'm, like, not even gonna BOTHER fighting you cos you're not even WORTH it." It's that pathetic. You know what would really prove that the power of independent, glorious bloody MUSIC SWEET SWEET MUSIC was alive, thriving and well in the UK today? A song. A song that we want to hear, at Christmas. If that song existed, those of us with ears (loads of us) would buy it. Those of us with hands (I mean, i've not done the figures, but I'm feeling confident) could even buy it from shops. From SHOPS. That's all we're asking for. I'm sick of having to force down a side of irony with my Christmas dinner. Just fucking write a good christmas song, play it into a thing that records sounds and then and then put what happens when you do that into a thing that will spit out the sound into our ears. It quite literally is that simple.

But you can't, can you, supposedly revolutionary musicians of Britain? No. Not one of you actually bothered to step up to the tinsel gilded plate. So instead, you all silently, collectively hid your rotten, shaking fingers beneath a glossy glove of psuedo-intellectualism and pretended that actually, the option of NOT doing a song was somehow.... better. MORE inspirational. Not playing music, was, actually, a lot more musical that doing something really boring like playing music. Shame on you. Shame on you all.

Luckily for you, I'm not just a pointer-outer, I'm a bloody fixer. When you hire me, I don't just do the spec, I get down on my hands and knees and confuse some more metaphors like you wouldn't believe. In light of what has happened, its become clear to me that someone out there has to bring the magic back to Christmas. I may not be that woman. But it turns out I am. I have written for us a Christmas song that puts Christmas back where it belongs - in the song. All I need now is someone to put it into the recordy box, and we'll finally, finally get this putrid mess of Christmas constipation out of our lives and into the cleansing, shining toilet of the past. This is my gift to the world. Feel free to add your own - your competition is either silence, or a boy who sounds like a woman. Go mental. Freedom is ours! FREEDOM IS OURS!

(Post Script: In order to get the funding to release her xmas single, Natasha was forced to accept donations from the charitable Apple company, a team who have always helped promote the spirit of xmas and believe that festive fun shouldn't be hampered by politics! She and they think that the finished product has not been affected in any way by this partnering, and both teams believe that the combined effort has been a great success! Merry Christmas from everyone at Apple!)

I may not have an ipad
I may not be a Mac
I may not have a teeny weeny Shuffle
Inside my Christmas sack

I may not like your itunes
We may not share FaceTime
But baby when I see you smile
I know that you'll be mine

(chorus)
Ho Ho Ho!
We'll be laughing!
Ho Ho Ho!
When we're buying
Exceedingly reasonably priced products
endorsed by Santa, Santa Jobbs!

Ho Ho Ho!
We'll be singing!
Ho Ho Ho!
When we're playing
with the apps that are on SPECIAL OFFER NOW WHEN YOU SIGN UP TO AN 18 MONTH CONTRACT FOR THE iPHONE 4 ON TMOBILE TODAY SEE WEBSITE OR ASK INSTORE FOR MORE DETAILS

Ho Ho Ho
Ho Ho Ho
Ho Ho Ho
Ho Ho Ho
Ho

Dear Moffat and Gatiss: An Open Letter Regarding Sherlock: Episode 3

Dear Mr Moffat and Mr Gatiss:

This is a difficult letter for me to write, it really is. Partially because I spilt rather a large amount of Caprisun on my keyboard yesterday, so the letter 'L' is sticky, and a couple of the key vowels have gone rogue. But mostly it's difficult because I have nothing but admiration for what you've achieved over the past couple of weeks. Really I do. (Technically that's not strictly true, but it's the opening paragraph, so let's work our way across the swimming pool slowly, eh?)

Sherlock: Episode One. Even just typing those words brings a blissful, hazy fog into my fingers, almost causing them to forget the 5 attempts it took not to not spell it "Sherock". The entire viewing experience was utter joy. Being an expert in fairly crap detective dramas (and by this I mean I've watched 2 episodes of Jonathan Creek and 1 of Midsomer Murders) watching Sherlock I felt like I finally got what this whole "mystery crimey solvey solvey" thing was about. It was like after months of travelling in a country where my only means of communication were year 8 vocab sheets, someone had plonked a babel fish in my ear. A whole new world opened unto me. It was funny, it was clever, it was slick, fast and starred a man whose face looked like the upper half of a bicycle. I was sold. That was one sexy bicycle.

And, best of all, though the dialogue was fiendishly, weepingly clever the actual plot was fairly simple, leaving you with the ever-pleasant feeling that actually, maybe, just maybe, this whole "consulting detective" thing might look rather jaunty on your own CV:

Sherlock: "But what could it BE, John?
*shot of taxi*
Watson: "I just don't know Sherlock, I just don't."
*more taxis swing by, narrowly avoiding taking up entire shot*
Sherlock: "Something that people get in. Some sort of vehicle. On the street, every day."
*three taxis mount pavement*
Sherlock: "Something that can take people from the airport to their homes, without being a bus, or a train. A mode of transportation that's a car, that you don't drive yourself, that's available in London, or indeed in any large cities"
Watson: *adjusts tie bearing taxi motif* "Shall we get something to eat? My fake limp is causing that taxi driver over there to shake some pills in a menacing manner."

me: *long, long pause* "...bet you its a taxi driver or something." (feels immense pride)

Everyone was a winner guys. Everyone was a winner. Martin Freeman was sort of Tim from the Office, but in a excusably different, ANGRY about the war way and instead of doing the "look to the camera" he did "look at anyone else in the room", and it was perfect. He was perfect. I fell in love with him, I fell in love with handlebar-face, I even loved the murdery driver even though he had that cream on his neck and I didn't quite believe in him. When the credits rolled I screamed "WHO IS MORIATY?!" and some juice fell on my laptop (unrelated), that's how excited I was. Oh and Mark, your cameo as Sherlock's brother was glorious, in the way that only you could have made it glorious. You brought all of your League of Gentleman brilliance - ('is it meant to be funny? Yes. But... he's.... acting really well. That's some really good tension acting. So... is it funny? Well my mind and this really well constructed dialogue says no but my mouth and the laughter coming out of it says yes. HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS MARK GATISS YOU DEMON)

So, bearing all of this in mind, you can only imagine my excitement last night, when I settled down for my second hit of what I was pretty sure was BBC heroin. But that's the problem with heroin, isn't it? It's never as good the second time round. (I'm available for more searing dialogue along these lines if you require it.)

My problems - yes, I'm afraid there were more than one - with last night's Sherlock are painful for me to relate now. But I feel like it's important to get it out, so that the air of awkwardness between us (I could tell from the way you clicked) is out of the way, done with, and we can work together to fill the room of your collective creative genius with furniture worthy of your initial , wonderful architecture.

So. Here we go.

1. What happened to the deduction? We really, really, really liked the whole deduction thing guys. Not being funny, but that was kind of what got the nation spilling in the first place. Remember episode one? "Cardiff - how could he possibly... oh!" "Alcoholic brother? This is madness... oh I see!" "PINK? How can he POSSIBLY... gasp!" This time around, you had one piffly bit with a round the world trip to china and some faff with hand cream. It's not good enough.

2. So, suddenly Sherlock Holmes is fighting some sort of turbaned ninja for no reason, and then its never mentioned again. Now, I get that this is all based on the original Sherlock - I really do - and I get that he is, in fact, a man of combat, and having not read any of them I can safely say that though on some level I respect that, on another, more significant level, I don't care. You can't just have this modern day sociopath who lives above a chicken shop and sticks nicotine patches on his arm fighting a ninja for no reason. If you're update the pipe, surely you have to update your negotiation techniques.

3. Chinese underworld ninja theatre exploding stick death wall climber museum smuggler grafitti artists - what? If this is an actual Sherlock, I apologise, I really do. But there were about seventeen different central "fiendish mysteries", going on there, and I wasn't satisfied by the answer to any of them. There were too many, it hurt my small brain, and I felt I'd paid for a small but delicious prawn cocktail and I'd instead been given 7 loaves of bread. Let's just check how many "puzzles" needed unravelling by the end, and how many were actually really great, clever answers:

- Question: How does a man enter a locked room without getting a key?
- Answer: Turns out he's a circus ninja. And a murderer. And also a smuggler and can shut off all the lights in a museum at a moment's notice, so he might be an electrician as well. (Even my newly glossy "consulting detective" CV pales in comparison)

- Question: Why did two men die after seeing the same symbols?
- Answers: Cos Ninjas and Circus Co woud rather kill two men than get the nine million squid they apparently want more than anything in the world. Rather than forcing journo/banker to tell them where it was - presumably the banker would have preferred actually GIVING them the 9 mil claire's accessory rather than DIE and Ninja co would rather get it back than just KILLING FOR NO REASON and then wandering around aimlessly wearing spangly costumes - they kill BOTH of them, confirming that no-one would ever, ever find it ever unless Sherlock Holmes works it out somehow. Yes. That makes sense.

- Question: Where do you find the magic code for the symbols?
Answer: London A-Z. For reasons that apparently do not deserve explaining, even though this is the point OF THE WHOLE HOUR AND A HALF'S VIEWING.

(on a less "central mystery" note:
Question: Why didn't Watson's bit of totty tip her chair over, and save herself some potential - relatively serious - death by Big Spear.
Answer: She is stupid. Girls are a bit stupid. )

4. Why didn't you use a Yellow Pages instead of the A-Z, considering it was sat outside beautiful Chinese girl's house the whole time, and when totty asked for a good number for a take away it would have been a perfect time for the SUDDEN REALISATION that EVERY HOUSE HAS ONE. (This I include purely because I was shouting it at the screen for about the last 20 minutes of the programme, with growing anger at their failure to comply with my instructions. You robbed me of my self-satisfaction, Moffat and Gatiss. You robbed me of my very smug.)

Ahhhh. God I feel better now. Also the graffiti message-suddenly-covered-up thing was a bit weird. Sorry, sorry, I'm done. I promise. The whole "I took a photo" thing was funny enough to let it slide.

You have to understand, boys, that I am on your side. All I want is for you to succeed. But now I feel a bit like the teacher who's promised the headmaster that the misbehaving kid will get star grades after that meaningful chat I had with him, only to later find out that he took a shit on the next test. You are better than this. We are better than this. I await Sunday with baited breath.
Please, ride that bicycle face to victory.

Yours, with deep fondness,

Natasha Yak

x

The Apprentice: A Pre-Final Explosion.

The Apprentice is fantastic television. Anyone who doesn't see that is a self-satisfied pathetic moron who should probably apply for The Apprentice so that we can watch them, laugh and turn to each other and say "God, isn't The Apprentice fantastic television?"

The Apprentice is brilliant for a number of reasons, and in the fine spirit of people numbering things, I shall number them.

1. You know you are infinitely more intelligent that anyone else on the programme, but at no point do you ever have to justify or prove it.

God they're stupid, aren't they? Aren't they?? It's so simple, you pin-striped grease pigeons, Sir Alan (I don't care, I know he's Lord Sugar now, but in the hearts and minds of the British public he is and ever will be Sir Alan) himself GAVE you a stall in Portobello market, PORTOBELLO FUCKING MARKET, where BITS OF AN OLD LEAF can sell for seven million pounds to the right hippy, just sell the damn home-made jam, get the profit and give Nick a cheeky feel up in the proceedings. Oh God, she's - she's just fallen over. Ha, ha ha, what FOOLS. You know what they haven't thought of? Everything I'm about to say. God I'm fantastic. This is fucking fantastic.

2. There's no horrible, crushing crushing guilt.

Thankfully, almost everyone on The Apprentice is a wanker. This makes the watching experience just so, so much more pleasurable. With programmes like Britain's Got Talent, or X-factor, sure it's fun, but you can't help feeling like you're watching the 21st century equivelent of someone pushing over a horse. Sure, it's funny, we've all had a laugh, but there's a lingering, horse-flavoured shame that's difficult to shake off. It's laughter at the expense of the innocent fool, and though he's put himself up for this humiliation, that's still not reason enough to glory in his pain. The Apprentince, however? From the moment one smug contender leers into the camera "Yah, yah, well, I'm pretty cut throat you know? Business is business, if you can't take the heat, get out of my listed fireplace," you can sit back, relax and sigh happily, safe in the knowledge that this waste of carbon deserves nothing more than having his head mashed repeatedly into the toilet of TV ritual humiliation.

3. Sir Alan is amazing.

He's just fucking brilliant. Yes, every series he looks more and more like a tree grandmother, but by God if everything he says isn't absolute fucking gold. The genius of the boardroom scenes is that it's a lot like holding your breath for a really, really long time, then suddenly breathing in precious, life-giving oxygen - aware in a way you never were before of its purity and significance. Every candidate talks utter, breath stealing bullshit, on and on and profit margins and client negotiation and yes but you didn't blah blah taking the lead, stifling my blah shit shit blah, and then just when you think you can't take it any more, can't physically handle the level of pure verbal muck that's being shoved unendingly into your ears, Sir Alan comes out with "Yeah whatever, but you didn't actually do anything, did you Clive?" And breathe in.

4. Nick.

If I have to explain it, you'll never understand it.


So there, in utterly non-brief, are just some of the reasons why The Apprentice is incredible. But this time around, there's a whole new level. Teenagers. Just sit back, and think about that for a minute. TEENAGERS. Competing in challenges just as hard (and I use that term loosely), as proper, grown-up apprentice! Dear God, Nick, that was your idea wasn't it? You wily cartoon grandfather clock. Thing is, now there's a whole new level to the scorning of the contestants on the show. Because actually, you have to be a bit frightened of them too, frightened in a way you were never, ever frightened of the toothy goons that flocked into the previous series. These kids are 16.

16.

When I was 16, if i could look at myself in the mirror without bursting into tears cos I'd stuffed my bra unevenly again, I was doing pretty freaking well. These kids want to take over the world. At 16, I was worried that a side-parting was a bit too ambitious. And you kind of have to give them credit for that. Or do you? Because they're still stupid. Still just as stupid as anyone else that has ever graced this show. But they're fucking 16. God, I don't even know anymore, and this kind of delicious distress is wonderful in the way that a tequila shot is wonderful. Am I drunk? I don't even know. I mean, yes technically I am, obviously, but psychologically I've never felt more powerful.

So let's do a quick rundown of the remainding contenders, in light of tonight's final. I cannot wait.

We've got:

Arjun : The asian boy equivelent of that girl from Miracle On 34th Street, Arjun is the favourite to win. He's brainy, he's mathsy, he seems like he hates everyone except Tim, and he treats the programme like an interesting dream he's having - utter bemusement, but with a willingness to go along with what's happening nevertheless, safe in the knowledge that quite soon it will all come to an end

Tim: Half teen heart throb, half hedge, Tim is the charming well-meaner of the group, who unfortunately seems to fall over things rather a lot. He asks some surprisingly savvy business questions, considering he talks about Monopoly so much, and he seems to switch every five minutes to and from being the only one who talks any sense to an utter, utter bastard.

Kirsty: An otter with a fringe, Kristy seems to have no personality traits to speak of, but we can certainly be sure that she's very short, and has massive breasts. Which, as a sixteen year old, is pretty much all you need.

Zoe: Oh Zoe. Zoe is by far the most terrifying person in the universe. Why she thought basing both her personality and appearance on the character of Draco Malfoy was a good idea, I don't really understand. Remember that bit in the first Lord Of The Rings film (second Lord Of The Rings film? Anyway-) where Frodo offers the one ring to beautiful, soft and lovely Cate Blanchett? Remember how she hesitiates before taking it, exploding into a nightmarish vision of a world ruled by a DARK QUEEN? Zoe wouldn't hesitate. Not even for a second. Please don't let Zoe win. For the sake of the world as we know it, don't let Zoe win.

How The David Cameron/Nick Clegg Conversation Will Go

What's almost definitely happening RIGHT NOW



Cameron - "Look. OK Nick, lets get down to the nitty gritty. How about I give you a million pounds."

Clegg - "What?"

Cameron - "Think about it Nick. You and your spanish bit could go away, see the world, we could put that member of sum41 in your place and no-one would be any the wiser."

Clegg - "But - "

Cameron- "It's a good offer. It's an offer for change, Nick, there's no denying it."

Clegg - "Change?"

Cameron - "Change! Change Nick! Change is fucking amazing! Fucking CHANGE, man. I'm getting changed right now!"

Clegg - "oh my god, is that -"

Cameron - "thats right Nick. My lower dangler looked a bit too much like a red tie for my liking, so I had it burnt off, and put the head of a fox in its place"

Clegg- " Oh dear God that's-"

Cameron - "CHANGE, Nick. That's the ticket! Now, about this million-"

Clegg - "Look, I don't want it"

Cameron - "Really? Cos that's... that's never not worked."

Clegg- " Look, you know the deal, if I come in with you now, I'm going to look like a tit."

Cameron - "a tit?"

Clegg - "its like a breast, but... more fun"

Cameron "...................I see."

Clegg - "Though to be honest, none of the bastards fucking voted for me"

Cameron - "Well exactly"

Clegg - "they promised,"

Cameron - "I know they did"

Clegg - "We did pinkie swears Dave-"

Cameron - "Jesus Christ"

Clegg - "and then they.. fucking..."

Cameron - "They're wankers, that's why. Would you like some peacock udder?"

Clegg - "thats, thats not even-"

Cameron - "I like my udders furry, you see, so had the damn animal things fused together"

Clegg - "but... but peacocks aren't even furry."

Cameron "Nick please. "Dog udder" sounds fucking horrible. Sam would rip my balls off. Well, she would. If I hadn't turned them into diamonds."

Clegg - "True."

Cameron- "CHANGE!"

Clegg - "what?"

Cameron - "nothing, sorry."

Clegg - "you need to give me this electoral reform thing, Dave."

Cameron - "we have. I told you. We will totally open up our discussion panel to the possibilities of of *mumble mumble 1974 mumble and seriously, have some udder"

Clegg - "for fuck's sake, i can't go back to them with that. They'll have my fucking arse"

Cameron- "Oh Nick, come now. Lets just do this step by step. Seriously. We believe in you. You believe in us. Come on, give me a hug."

Clegg - "what? Oh, alright then

Cameron "Come here you,"

*sounds of a tustle*

Clegg "What the hell are you doing?"

Cameron - "what?"

Clegg - "What the shit is this? Is this.. have you just poured some blue paint down my back?"

Cameron- "it looks great. Seriously."

Clegg - "I'm off. If anyone asks, we clashed on the NHS and I stabbed you with a sword made of gold. Call my wife, and tell her we're leaving. Spain doesn't have to deal with this shit."

*He leaves*

Cameron - "Change!"

Election: My new favourite programme.

I have a confession to make. It's not a nice confession, so I'm trying to say it quietly, but "quiet" isn't a font I use often, mostly because it doesn't exist (though there's probably an app for that, much like there's not an app for "shutting the smugging hell up").



OK. Here we go.



I don't understand. I dont understand the election.



Now, please don't judge me too harshly. This is actually the first time I've not understood something like this and I'm not totally sure how it's happened. To be honest, I'm beginning to panic a little. Now stop me if I'm wrong, but firstly, Simon Cowell has yet to give his opinion on the whole thing. In terms of reality TV, that seems a bit weird. Secondly, I'm never totally sure which of the contestants is actually winning, as its very hard to make out what they're doing under all the sequins and glitter. Thirdly (and this is quite a big one), are you seriously telling me that the big prize is being in charge of the actual proper, real-life country? Because they've seriously yanked up the incentive since the "singing Somewhere over the rainbow to the queen" days. And we get to, like, vote for it? As a nation? Whose idea was that? Surely this is far too big a decision to be left to us? Somewhere, somehow, something seems to have gone terribly wrong. And I don't understand how it's happened.



I mean, I did try. I watched episodes one, two and three of "Election", with my ears so strained it felt like they were trying to have simultaneous poos. As far as I can tell, everyone was crooning away to the same song, an angry rock number entitled "Change". Though apparently Cameron sang it first, then Clegg did a disco cover-version, and Brown only released his yesterday after singing it live in front of Citizens UK. I really did like all of them, though Cameron seems a bit pissed off that everyone's stolen his hook. I'm just worried that somehow, despite clicking my fingers to the beat, I'm sort of missing the point.



The problem was that I'm finding it rather difficult to get to the bottom of everything. Now with The X-factor, the contestants each sing a song, the judges comment and we decide based on how nicely they did it. And also depending on whether or not they came from Wales. With this one, I'm finding it hard to see the criteria. It's certainly not "answering the question put to them in a way that is accessible to the great British public". It seems to me to be quite a basic dance routine - one of the three says something universally positive, like "babies are nice", one of the other ones just shakes his head in anger and disbelief and the other other one says "can we please just stop this bickering please". Then they trade places and do the same thing. Sometimes you have to keep an eye on the ties just to make sure you're looking at the right one. Without Simon there to tell them all to stop fucking about, I'm at a bit of a loss. Still, we do at least have polls, which are quite colourful in a "imagine if some lines were stumbling about drunk" kind of way.



But its unfair for me to make a judgement entirely based on three episodes. And anyway, its all online now, right? I thought to myself, why not have a look at the manifestos of the three, (the "about me" section on the "Election" facebook page). And I really tried, I did. But there too lay utter confusion, a spiky hedge maze of "macro-economics", "short -term freezes" and "strategic defense and security reviews", none of which I could really get a grasp of, littered among name-calling and snide remarks about past governing. I'm not saying its not entirely my own fault. I didn't in fact do a degree in economics. But considering the big hit "Change" seems to be the title track in the album "This economic crisis", forgive me for wanting information that I can understand quickly and clearly.



I can probably list on two hands the solid, no fucking about (seriously though, no fucking about)things I know about the party policies. Am I ashamed? Yes. Is this my fault? Possibly. But surely, in an age where we are overloaded with information, where apparently we can learn anything with a quick night-whistle to the owl of Wikipedia, surely it's strange that the most important knowledge about the society we live in has slimmed down to a campaign about three men, rather than three parties? What do I know? I know Cameron is the face of evil, that he climbs into children's bed at night and tells them their parents are made out of toast. Brown? A bumbling cod-fish, whose jaw muscles are slacker than his conversation and as for Nick Clegg, there are rumours that actually, he's one of the members of Sum41, doing this for a laff.

But there has to be a winner, doesn't there? There has to be, because every "election aftermath" has gone on and on about "who won this week". And as far as I can tell, that pissed blue little lines is sailing high above where the other two dare to treat. But then, if you ask my Lib Dem literature I was reading today "there are many, many areas where the Conservatives cannot win", and if you ask Labour, the Conservatives only exist if you say their name three times in the mirror, so who knows what's going to happen in the live final. Policy, you have no place here. This is about popularity, its about flashy persuation and its about banging your fist with gravitas. I've lost counts of the facebook groups that want to "get this dead salmon more fans than David Cameron", or "Get Clegg into power cos we did it with Xmas number one". What a great reason to vote, eh? Why not introduce a "vote 4 PM via text", where if you vote enough times, you get entered into a prizedraw to win a 30 second video of Sarah Brown and Sam Cameron wrestling, stripped to the waist? That and a one-way ticket to a country that doesn't pride its election as being a battle for who can shout the loudest. We're so bloody used to being handed the power, that I'm a bit worried we've lost any idea of how important we actually are. Still. It's too late now, eh? To all those who know what you're doing this Thursday, good luck to you. You stuck it out longer than I could. For everyone else, well, it's two days away yet, Cameron might yet stick a wine bottle up his bum and change everything.

McElderry vs Rage: A Practical Discussion

There's been a lot of tomfoolery, humdiggery and fopcockery going on over the last couple of weeks, significantly to do with Christmas, and the shinbobberies of those sail in her. (I think I only made one of the words above, but I can't be sure).

Christmas is a time of beautiful tradition. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire (which doesn't exist, because everyone just has Heinz microwave-a-chestnuts now), velvet scarves, looking at the Christmas tree whilst you put baubles on thinking "wow that's a lot of pine needles that just fell off. For no reason. Like a lot. A really lot though. Should I sweep them up? I should probably sweep them up. Do we even own a broom though? Could use the hoover. But then what if the pine needles block the hoover and mum gets all angry again even though i was just bloody trying to help and its CHRISTMAS for fuck's sake and BOLLOCKS to this, jesus, sometimes you can't do anything right, forget it I'm just going to set the thing on fire."

I've slightly forgotten what I was talking about, but the point is, Christmas presents are great. And also, that the Christmas Number One debate is one that we celebrate like clockwork every year. Remember when 'Mad World' won it? And everyone was all "yeah. fuck YEAH man! Cos like, everything is all shitted up and a bit of shiny fucking tinsel and Simpson's Cluedo doesn't change that you capitalist wankers." Though actually everyone was really just thinking "God its a bit dull, isn't it?" What a year.

So this time around, the debate is raging (hahahahaha yes I know brilliant) between Rage Against The Machine and X-factor winner Joe McElderry. In the pop-tastic, Jonathan Ross and M&S mince pies section of the world, the argument goes that Joe deserves it because he's got a lovely face, he's sung over 7 songs to a live audience and well.. because he just bloody does alright? In the FUCK YOU AMERICA, 'I'm using black tinsel this year' Rage section, the battle cry is more "DEATH TO SIMON COWELL, the revolution is nigh! Grab him by his very world-decision-making tongue and string him to a plastic violin that screeches out 'Bleeding Love' using his very INNARDS until he is ACTUALLY BLEEDING and HOW WE WILL LAUGH THEN"

Both compelling arguments, I'm sure we all agree.

But, in my humble, brilliant opinion, I think everyone is rather missing the point. There's only one way to judge this epic, never-to-be-forgotten (until christmas eve or so) battle. And that is by looking at the songs themselves. Strip away the ragged clothing of context, and gaze upon the shivering, supple product in all its nakedness. One of these songs is a more appropriate Christmas song than the other. Simple as that. One of them brings to the forefront of all of us the true meanings behind Christmas. And it is our job to find out which it is.

So. Lets have a proper bloody look, shall we?

Joe McElderry: The Climb

I can almost see it
That dream I am dreaming- so he's asleep to begin with, which isn't really a good start.
But there's a voice inside my head saying
"You'll never reach it" - a rather depressing message for children around the world at this time, don't you think, Joe?

Every step I'm taking
Every move I make feels
Lost with no direction
My faith is shaking - Oh dear oh dear, blasphemy eh? Did our Lord Jesus complain his symmetrical face off when he was NAILED TO A PIECE OF WOOD?If so, the bible dealt with that entire situation with great subtlety. You're just walking down a road, Joe. Keep it together.

But I gotta keep trying
Gotta keep my head held high

There's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move- Joe is in fact here saying that he himself wishes to become our God, our Lord on high, and as the bible states "If you worship anyone else, I will fucking rail you"
Always gonna be a uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose

Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb- Joe's love of mountaineering is admirable, but not particuarly fitting with the spirit of Christmas. Perhaps more a comic relief song? He could climb one of these mountains he loves so bloody much for some kids dying of death?

The struggles I'm facing
The chances I'm taking
Sometimes might knock me down
But no, I'm not breaking

I may not know it
But these are the moments that
I'm gonna remember most, yeah
Just gotta keep going

And I, I got to be strong
Just keep pushing on I would rather delicately suggest here that Joe's song is almost entirely about his own personal troubles, an attitude that, at Christmas, is extrememly inappropriate.

'Cause there's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be a uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose

Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb, yeah! I can't help but feel bored and rather insulted at Joe's continuing insistence in telling us about his extreme hobbies. He is perhaps directing this song at his parents? As a way to suggest possible hill-related Christmas presents?

There's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be an uphill battle
Somebody's gonna have to lose- slightly sinister?
Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side- Damning heaven?
It's the climb, yeah!

Keep on moving, keep climbing
Keep the faith, baby now indoctrinating youngsters to join his hiking, half-awake brainwashing, christianity bashing cult, with HIM at the centre like a grinning, crooning, boot wearing golden idol?
It's all about, it's all about the climb
Keep the faith, keep your faith, whoa.


A frightening look there, into the world of X-factor future.

Now. To the competition.

Rage Against The Machine: Killing In The Name Of

Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses. - instantly the song hooks us n with a delightful and very relevent comparison between our daily lives, and the sufferings Jesus McChrist went through on the cross.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.- Helpful to have it repeated, in case you didn't hear it quite right.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.- And again, perhaps with the knowledge that many who will listen to the xmas number one will be the over 70s, whose hearing may in fact be impaired.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses. Uggh!

Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of!- A harrowing but extremely potent reminder of the Easter result of all this Christmas frivolity. Jesus may have been born. But lets never forget...
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya- their dedication to the hard of hearing is admirable at a time of year when often, the less able among us can be forgotten
Those who died
are justified
for wearing the badge- a lovely little reference to the decorations of the seasons,
they're the chosen whites- as in 'a white christmas'
You justify
those that died
by wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
Those who died
are justified
for wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
You justify
those that died
by wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites

Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses. It's also nice to see that they haven't forgotten those who may suffer from memory loss.

Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of! - the rousing chorus!

And now you do what they taught ya
And now you do what they taught ya
And now you do what they taught ya
And now you do what they taught
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taughtya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taughtya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya!!! - A celebration of the traditions that bind us all together at this time of year! Passed down through the generations to create one consciousness, one mind, one very thought at this magical time!

Those who died
are justified
for wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
You justify
those that died
by wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
Those who died
are justified
for wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
You justify
those that died
by wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
Come on!

(Guitar Solo)
Uggh!

Yeah! Come on! Uggh!

(Get louder until 9th by which time shouting)
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me. An ironic wink towards the young kiddies on this festive day, the tantrums, the brandy shared between a family row, a cautious but cheeky nod towards the rambunctiousness of Christmas
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.- all together now!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!

MOTHERFUCKER!!!! Ugh!!- the row descends into a final, happy sigh. An acknowledgement that at the end of the day, no matter what our differences, this is a time of sharing and loving.

I think it's clear that we have our winner. Now go forth, and spread the word.

Bless us, everyone, and remember, "fuck you, I won't do what you tell me".

Merry Christmas.

The battle of the compass

In a few days, I bid farewell to the hills and valleys of Northernville, wave off the four of us who live in Warrington (mum, dad, brother-dad and aunty Gran) and journey beyond the city centre rabbits nests to where the streets shine with gold made of pixels and itune downloads. Londontown is to be my new residence for the next three months. Hurrah for me? Hurrah for me. Indeed.

Everyone has been very kind about this, partly because the people I know are mostly actors and are very skilled at doing 'kind' if they have to. But mostly- i fear- because they view being in the Northern parts of England as some kind of terrible witch's curse, only to be broken by obtaining the employment amulet of AccentPMG. Perhaps I am being overly sensitive to this. Except I'm not. Of course, I have always been a victim of prejudice because of this fact. I don't need to bring up again my first night of University, when a gang of Southey southey sat me in a chair and played the song 'Northern Birds' to me, in order to establish firmly from the off my place in their society. Again, in the Big Apple, ask anyone; the only place in England is in fact London. (to be fair, I also met a man who thought Scotland was in England, so lets not make too much of their geographical knowhow)

I am not saying that London is not a place filled with wonders, jammy centres and so much culture you have to order it on the side to make sure it doesnt fling itself all over your burger. It certainly is that, and much more (probably). All I am saying is that the pitying look in the eyes when I say the words 'I am from Warrington' does not go unnoticed. Its a look that says, 'oh you. Imagine what could have been eh? Imagine had you not been inflicted with such a terrible disability'. Yes, true, Warrington doesn't have what you Southy folk would call 'museums', or 'shops' or 'oxygen', but dammit, Kerry Katona was born here. Kerry. Katona. Think on.

The thing is, the way I see it is that in the big old chat with God that the North and the South had, the conversations went like this

God- So, little South of England, I see on your form that you have requested lots of Cafe Neros, thousands of people saying the word 'consumer' and flashing neon lights in every Early Learning Centre'
The South- 'Thats right big daddy, ohh yeah, hit me with that shit.'
God-'Hold on hold on I'm getting to it. Now you realise that with all these 'statue and flags' credits you have none left to spend on 'kindness to your fellow man'?
The South- Come on man, dont get me down, can we wrap this up? I got a party to go to, yeah yeahhhh'
God- 'Oh, alright then. I'll throw in lots of scarves and sunglasses as well, seeing as you've done such a good job of convincing America that we are their sidekick'
The South- 'nice one papa. Check you dogs later'
God-' Right, The North.'
The North- 'Hi God. Everything Ok with you today?'
God- 'Ohh, you know. Its alright. My feet are a bit painful, but'
The North- 'Didn't you create feet? Can't you erase your own pain, and indeed your feet for that matter?'
God- 'Shut up, you're ruining this analogy completely'
The North- 'Sorry God. I made you this cake.'
God- 'Oh great! Are the ingredients Marks and Spencer's?'
The North- 'erm.... no. Asda.'
God- 'oh.. oh.. well great, just put it on that table. Now, I see you've asked for 'excellent pasties', 'patience and empathy with those who don't quite know where they are going' and 'lower drinks prices to the MAX'
The North- 'Yes please'
God- 'I see you haven't checked the 'global significance' box
The North- 'Oh no, no thanks. I have a feeling that people will appreciate the fact that our residents are just as intelligent and savy as people from anywhere else, and wont judge them simply because they say 'bath' instead of 'barth.'
God- 'hmmm. well. We'll see shall we?'

And thus it was.

I spent last week in London, and was on a bus when I heard the following exchange between the bus driver and a girl who clearly had only just come to the big city and was in need of help.
girl- 'a single to teddington please'

driver- *judging silence*
girl- *clears throat and waving money* 'a single, please, to teddington?'
Driver- 'Don't accept that'
Girl *looks down at money, wondering for a second if we had in fact just given in and changed to the dollar* sorry?
driver- 'DOn't accept that'
Girl- 'Erm, I just want a single'
Driver- 'You have to use your card'
Girl- 'my card? I can't use cash?'
Driver- 'CAN'T PAY FOR JOURNEY ON THE BUS.'
Girl- *utterly confused* 'what?'
Driver- 'machine outside. Get ticket there'
Girl- 'I can't just, I can't get it from you? But you're about to leave, aren't you?'
Driver- 'yes. can't get it on the bus. Have to go to machine. Get ticket.'
Girl- 'But won't you have gone?'
Driver- *silence*
Girl looks around for help, and finding none, she exits the bus.

The worst thing was that I didn't say anything. mainly becasue I had no idea what she was doing wrong, but still, even if I hadn't, I wasn't even sure that I could have been any help. London is that kid that is beating up someone else, and you don't say anything so that he wont beat you up instead. If we have been oop North, the exchange would have gone thusly

Girl- 'A single to the barn please'
Driver- 'aye, come on in love, ye money's no good here. Would you like to drive? Here's a pot o tea fer yer troubles.Have my coat, yers look cold. No no, you keep it, my lady will just knit me another.'

fact.

Ok, ok, I admit, I am being hugely unfair. But I cannot help but think that considering everyone wants to move to London, everyone there looks instantly unhappy upon arrival. But who am I to talk? I am doing the same thing. I crave the cavernous underground, the shops open until joke o clock, the culture, the people saying things like 'yes but compaing it to his early work, he really has developed a sense of *vaguely french words*'. So we shall see eh? Only time will tell. It could be that I happily become a London human, stocking up on my spare 'r's for words that have no business having them in in the first place. It could be that like beloved old Kerry, I find the big bad world too much and end up back in Iceland, weeping over frozen sausage rolls. Still. It is rarthar exciting, I carn't argue with thart.

Cut and Paste

So I had my hair cut this week (don't worry, this is scene-setting happening here, I promise not to linger on this, there really is nothing worse than people talking about haircuts. I mean there is, obviously, but on a domestic level its up there with stealing your last bag of wotsits, or someone explaining the back story of a TV cop drama that you're obviously never going to watch again, and frankly, are only watching in the first place this time because THEY chose what was going on the tv EVEN THOUGH they KNOW you've never seen the damn thing before and will never again, but you're far too polite to say 'actually, the inbetweeners is on channel 4, sure its an old series but hey, you never get tired of laughing, right?' and now you're stuck valiently asking things like 'so he was the one who's drug ring got taken down by the prostitute spy?' whilst secretly thinking 'GOD why dont they all just DIE')

So I had my haircut this week. Always the same hair dresser, always the same place. Joanne. and My House. She is the Chicken Korma of hairdressers. Never let me down yet. I mean sure, you have to wash your hair in the downstairs sink before she arrives, and sweep up all the old bits of hair after she's gone, but hey, for a cut and colour for 35 quid, who's compaining? Not I. The thing is, with Joanne, talking to her isnt an absolute hideous nightmare, as I find it is with almost every hairdresser in the world. Oh sure, stick me in a bar with some murderers, I'll chat away like a drunken fig, but put me in a chair with someone holding a brush in one hand, and the gesture that comes with the question 'so have you been watching Big Brother?' in the other, and its like I'm Bond under torturing. Nice try darling, but you'll have to rope ma goolies a LOT harder than that I'm afraid.

So yes, with Joanne its much more like a vague aunt has come to visit, and, loose as they are, the threads of conversation from the last visit are still there to be sewn into the deep tapestry of Mutual Banal Conversation. And it happens in the kitchen, so there's the off chance of a cup of tea if my dad somehow tears himself away from the excitements of the pond.

The point is, however, that Joanne was telling me about her daughter, Libby, who is 13, in her 2nd year of high school and currently studying for her whatevers (She was chopping rather vigorously at that point and my concentration slipped somewhat as I saw what appeared to be most of my scalp falling onto my own knees) Libby was doing English, and had been given Dracula to read. Now this made me look away from the knee-bound back of my head rather suddenly.
'Hold on, she's studying Dracula?'
'Oh yes, all about vampires isn't it? Was a bit worried for her really.'
'Yes, vampires, yes they are.. rather scary...'
I'd be rather worried too, i thought, as I'm pretty sure from studying it at A level and then in my degree that actually its more about gang-rape than anything. I mean, obviously they're not going to tell the 13 year old kids that Bram Stoker was in fact a mentalist sexist woman-phobe who wrote a book basically to live out his own fantasies of literally sexing them all to death. but still.... I mean.. We did Skellig when I was 13. It was about an angel. I'll give you a small extract from the book just to illustrate what I mean:

'Lucy rose up in her casket, looking pretty much like a massive slut. What a whore. I mean really though, her lips looked like they could take a truck covered in hog grease. Van Helsing grabbed a nearby stake in order to stab that fucking bitch right in the HEART, and then one of the other men, brian or carl or someone said 'my main man Van, is it just me or is this metaphor too complicated?' Helsing cried 'you know what, you're right! This is all getting a bit subtle for my liking! its time to fuck this bitch UP, Renfield style!' Then he threw away the massive stick and they all did her. And it was awesome.' (page 324)

So yeah. You see what I mean? Trying not to put too fine a point on it, I mentioned to Joanne that the book might not be.. well... savoury, for a young impressionable mind. She furrowed her brow, and said that so far they'd only done the first few pages, and that it seemed alright. I shrugged and thought it best to say nothing more. Partially because it didn't seem right to interfere in her child's education, but mainly because all this brow furrowing business was playing havoc with her depth perception. I nearly lost an ear. I tried to remember the first few pages of Dracula, and whether it had hinted at any of the crapness to come. I found a copy post-sweeping (a very soothing experience, its as if you're cleaning away your old, significantly less awesome self) and had a look at the first page. The first line of Dracula is as follows-

'Jonathan Harker's Journal
3 May. Bistritz. __Left Munich at 8:35 P. M, on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late.

Jesus Christ. Doesn't exactly set you up, does it? By the sound of this, you're settling down for a 14 hour conversation with the world's most boring dinnerguest. The teacher probably read the first 3 pages, knew there'd been a 'twilight' craze amount the young and nimble and thought bosh. Done.

Dangerous stuff, these first impressions.

Got me thinking though, we're not allowed to judge books by their covers- fair play, there are a LOT of pretentious graphic designers out there who will do anything to get gothic-y typewriter fonts onto front pages everywhere. But, can we judge them by their first lines? Surely, an author's first line is basically the most carefully thought out introduction you can ever have. Imagine the brilliance of crafting word for word the things to say to people upon first meeting them, without fear of vommitting, violent angry laughter or accidently asking them if they'd raped your grandma. That is what a first line is. Sure, thats a lot of pressure, but at the same time- there's a lot of books out there. If any of them lines should count, the first one is the one to go for.

With this in mind, I had a little poke around some of my favourite books, and snooped away at their first lines to test the theory. I print some for you below. If you like the sound of any of them, I'll give you the title. And please add your own. I love a good mystery line and it sounds like Joanne might need a few suggestions for Libby's 3rd year- 'Crack Pimps Uncovered', anyone?

This is by no means a comprehensive collection, but rather lovely old friends I happened to have around me at the time of writing. Enjoy-

'It's hot as hell in Martirio, but the papers on the porch are icy with the news'

'It's a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imgine, they still think he or she is wonderful'

'The snow in the mountains was melting, and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation'

'Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy'

'Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun.'

'Mrs Rodice perched herslef on the edge of her spartan desk and sucked her watery afternoon tea through sullen lips.'

'In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me sine advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. 'Whenever you feel like criticising anyone,' he told me, 'just remember that all the people in the world haven't had the advantages that you've had'

'On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge.'

'My desert island, all-time, top-five most memorable breakups, in chronological order, are as follows: Alison Ashmore; Penny Hardwick; Jackie Alden; Charlie Nicholson; and Sarah Kendrew. Those were the ones that really hurt. Can you see your name on that list, Laura?'

and finally

'These very old people are the father and mother of Mr Bucket. Their names are Grandpa Joe, and Grandma Josephine.

No amount of TV Cop backstory can destroy how these unimaginably wonderful objects make me feel. The Inbetweeners can wait. And besides. There's always Channel 4 +1.

The Hidden World of the Optician.

I, unfortunately, would never survive in the wild.

Yes, this is partly because I am generally terrible at being outdoors. Really. I'm not even ashamed of it. I am rubbish at nature. I give a big thumbs up to the old 'from trees to cave' category we picked as a species way back when we gave that glitzy ol' evolutionary wheel a spin.

Its also slightly because I don't feel I'm prepared enough in the ways of knots- it seems so vital to be an excellent knot do-er in the wild, though I do remain unsure why. Perhaps you can knot yourself a meal. Or knot a sword in times of battle. I'm not judging the world of knots, to be sure, but there are very few times when i REALLY NEED something to attach to a rope. But not just need, but need TO THE MAX. To the point where the knot that everyone does (under over squeezy squeezy until its bigger than your fist) is no longer sufficient.

But I'm getting off the point. Knot my best opening. ahaha well done me and all is forgotten. Anyway, my point.
My point is, I cannot see.
Not even a bit.
My talent for seeing is slim to none. Its not on my CV and I dont boast about it to my friends and colleagues.
I find this very frustrating, as personally, I really enjoy seeing. I bloody love it. And I cant do it. Embarrassingly, I need eye crutches. And I've never been happy about this.

So you can imagine, upon entering an opticians at any time, I'm a little on edge. I always feel a bit like I'm about to enter an exam, and I didn't revise nearly enough. No, its not even that, I feel like I'm about to enter an exam, and I know that they're going to give me a towel to write with. Its the injustice of it all. But there's no getting around the damn thing, I need an update on how supremely crap my eyes are, and they are the only ones who can give it to me. In I go.

Now, my Mum, who is sympathetic about the failure of my eyes, as she too has suffered a similar fate, is generally very good about getting me to and from the opticians. However, she does make me go to Asda opticians so she can get a shop in at the same, and considering she GAVE me the damaged optical goods in the first place, you think we could splash out on specsavers. I don't know what it is, but sometimes I just really, really feel as if I should have gone there. Who knows why.

But anyway, I'm only so grouchy about it because I hate the opticians so much, and to be honest, the prospect of an off the cuff kinder bueno post eye raping is enough to keep the forced smile on my face at any time. The problem is, and the reason I write this to you today, considering what a horrendous ordeal going to the opticians is (and it is, lets not get all spoonful of sugar about this) the women who worked there genuinely seemed to believe they had not only the most wonderful, but bizarrely, the most hilarous jobs in the world.

It began with an attendant type (eye nurse? who even cares) making me sit in a chair and among other things, have a machine blow air suddenly and violently into my eye. Over and over again. As it made a shooty, foamy noise. I know machines can't be rude. But this one really, really did try. I felt someone had instructed a rogue young thug of an extractor fan to spit in my face repeately. 'It might be a little startling!' the young nurse (?) said with a grin. Startling. I'll say. I never thought I'd feel like I was being taunted by a piece of optical equipment. Every time it spat I jumped, and the nurse would giggle away, as if she'd just told a really amusing joke, and the punchline was me getting spat in the face. Excellent.

Thankfully though, it couldnt last forever, and I was able to stand up, my eyes feeling like the underside of a desert vole. I was taken into the sanctuary of the appointment room where the friendly optician lady took my chart, looked at it, paused for a minute as I sat in the waggly feet chair and looked up.
'did you do this test with your lenses in?'
I replied in the affirmative, as I'd told them I had them in when I arrived, and no one told me to do otherwise.'
She burst out laughing.
'AHAHAHA HAHAA oh dear oh dear, yes! You see, it says here that your eyesight is perfect! And that, well, that doesn't happen a lot does it? HAHAHA'
'ha. yes, i suppose that.. that would be classed as some sort of jesus mirac-
'JUNE! JUNE COME IN HERE. Did you do her test?'
June nodded with bated breath.
'she's got her CONTACTS in!'
HAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHA
HAHAHA
I laughed away too (it seemed only polite, no one wants to be the only non-laugher in a room of hilarity, its like turning up to a great fancy dress party wearing jeans and a satirical name tag) but couldnt shake what this would actually mean.
'HAHAH, oh dear.. oh dear. well, back out you go! We'll have to do all the tests again!' She grinned. June grinned. That bastard smug little extractor fan drop out grinned. And we did it again. Only this time I didn't even have my eye armour on.

Post this, I had the fun of actually doing the 'now read the bottom line.. the bottom line, I said. Oh sorry, that is genuinely what you thought it was? oh. oh, oh dear...' and being told with glee that i had indeed slipped further down the eye ladder, and was now approaching the kind of vision a bowl would reject as useless.

Still, I had glasses to choose, and my Mum had turned up, meaning I had exactly 3 minutes to choose which ones I wanted before she started breathing in the way that meant if I took any longer, I wouldnt need them anyway as I wouldn't have a head. So picking two up (it was one for 60 pounds, or two for 70 pounds- and you know you dont need two pairs of glasses and yet... 10 pounds... I could never have lived with myself). Now the fun really began.
June looked devestated. 'I'm so sorry. But these are on different deals. This one here' she waggled a pair I'd given her 'are only 40 pounds. And you want the 60 pound deal'.
I was getting the warning mum breaths on my neck.
'Oh its fine' I said hurridly, 'I'll just pay the extra anyway, I don't mind.'
I was met with silence. Another attendant rushed up as if Gondor had just called for aid.
'I'm afraid-' started June
'You can't override the deal' said the New Attendant in a hushed tone.
'Oh, ' I said, 'but.. but I dont mind paying extra. These are only forty pounds, yes? And I'm willing to pay as if they were sixty. So. So its better, yes? For everyone?'
June and New Girl looked at each other. They looked back at me.
'But thats not the deal', said June. 'They are part of a seperate deal.'
I really wished I had my dealing with ridiculous situations knot to hand.
'But I'll be paying more' I said. 'More. By twenty pounds'. I almost added, 'surely Mr Philip Asda would bloody love a hand-out?', but I didn't think now was the time for fictional characters based on acronyms.
June and N.A looked at each other again. And suddenly, a strange smile dawned on NA's face. It was a curious mix of glee, exhilaration and fear. 'You know what,' she said
'what?' asked June breathlessly
'Those glasses' she pointed at the offending 40 pound lepers, 'were made for a customer. and he never picked them up. We could', she swallowed, 'we could just put them through as sixty pounds, as the register wouldn't know where they came from, as they were specially made for a customer!'
June about shat herself.
'Yes! Yes we could! We could do it!' They both turned to me, where I proceeded to thank them excessively for letting me pay them extra money.
As she was putting the order through, June turned to the other girl and said grinning wildly 'I tell you what, we'll never work at SpecSavers, will we?'
The other girl hooted and replied with relish 'Ohhh no, they'd never let us!'
I suddenly caught a wonderful glimpse of an underworld I'd never imagined before. An opticians mafia, opposing gangs in a west side story type setting, where administractive hitmen got tattoos of their chosen branch on their cornias and bombarded their optical opponants with midnight lens raids. Bi-focal bomb shelters and suicide pact saline nightmares. Specsavers vs Asda. Other name of an opticians vs a different other name of an opticians. Marvellous.
Drifting into this dream as I walked out with my Mum, whose breathing was now back on track, I barely even realised that I'd forgotten to buy my celebratory kinder bueno. Ah well. On the mean streets of the optician underbelly, there was no such thing as chocolatey treats. Just monacle maniacs, untrustworthy red and green circles and eye tests with such tiny letters that any man trying to work them out goes instantly mad. Cripes. No one ever had this kind of trouble in a tent. Forget my past, nature, I'll tie you my best forgiveness knot and lets start this again.

How To Protect Yourself (Or Your House) From Ninjas (Or Similar)

When I was a young girl, at the wee age of an age where you have no idea what your age is, I woke up to the sound of my parents being attacked by ninjas in the garden.

Now this, as you can imagine, was fairly upsetting. The noise was coming from outside, and was the kind of high pitch 'hiiiiiYAH YAH HIIIII' sound you'd expect from any respectable ninja. Like in the films. The ninja films. With ninja noises ACTUALLY in. There could be no other explanation. Too frightened to look out of the window in case I was spotted by a laser ninja eye, I decided that my parents needed to be called into action. A fairly ridiculous idea, now I think about it, as I'm pretty sure my dad's samuri experience was passable at best, and Mum's never even been a whizz with a fork, never mind anything else. But hey, I was.. however old I was, and at that time, most of life problem's were resolved by asking my parents for help, (rather than now, where all of my problems are solved by asking them for money.) So, foolishly confident in their Eastern combat abilities, I tiptoed quickly to their door (you cant RUN when there's ninjas around, they'll HEAR you), and popped my head through the door.
'Mum,' I said, quite calmly I thought, considering the grave situation the family was in, 'I think there's some ninjas in the garden.'
I waited for a sleepy response along the comforting lines of 'alright poppet I'll get my death rifle', but none came. There was silence. I stretched my wee (but even then already quite powerful and attractive) arm up and turned on the light. To my surprise, the bed was empty. No parents, no death rifle to be seen, and no chance of me going back to sleep. I was surprisingly calm as I stared at the bed, I think because actually, this situation made a lot more sense. Why would ninjas be crying out in a fighting and angry manner if they had no one to fight with? A ridiculous notion, to be sure! Obviously, my parents were outside, and fighting with their fighting skills! In many ways, the logic of the situation was quite reassuring. I only hope mum wasn't grappling with a fork.

So, with the sitatuon at least comfortingly clear in my mind, I did what any child does when she is awaiting the results of her parents death match with subburban garden ninjas, I sat on the stairs and contemplated my future life as a ninja child. I considered waking my brother, sleeping soundly in the next room, then contemptuously dismissed the idea- after all, if anyone in this house was going to be a a ninja child- it was me, and bloody Joe wasn't going to take that away from me like he took away the sippy sippy cup with the clown on it JUST BECAUSE he was younger and 'needed' it more than me. So I sat with my head in my hands, listening to the 'HIIIIYAA! YA YA YAA! HUP HAHA YAYAYA' from in the garden, twinned with the growing noise of my parents shouting a bit and muttering angrily to each other. As I recall it, I sat on those stairs for 7 hours. However, memory is a tricky thing. It may only have been 6. Anyway, eventually, after an unspecified amount of time, the front door suddenly swung open, and I gasped, my heart pounding. A ninja! In a white Cloak! And a Samuri white belt! Unfortunately, he then stepped into the light and what was a dazzling ninja ensemble became rather disappointingly similar to my father's dressing gown.
"DAD!" I yelled, suddenly flooded with relief that he had won the arduous battle against worthy foes, and had claimed me as his prize. I rushed down the stairs and flung myself into his arms, the daughter of a ninja slayer. He gathered me up proudly and placed me firmly back into bed, telling me that everything was OK now, I was safe, and by golly, did I sleep soundly and proudly that night.

Unfortunately it turned out that actually, some of our chickens had gotten out of the coup at about 1am, and mum and dad had chased them round the garden for about an hour and a half in their pyjamas, trying to get them to shut up by yelling at them quite loudly. Still. An eventful night, nevertheless.

The reason I tell this life-altering story (coyrighted, in case you're thinking of turning it into a film), is because tonight I sit alone in a large house, ready to hunker down and brave out the night. There's something about being in your old family home alone that takes you back to a time when ninjas lurked behind every chicken, and for some reason, I can't shake the feeling that if ever there was a night for me to hone my fork skills, this is that night.

Of course, I am well aware that it is ridiculous. And yet I feel compelled to make sure that that sound that I just heard that sounded rather like a dog drinking some water in the kitchen wasn't in fact a man breaking in through the roof with a saw. It also isn't really my fault, as my parents haven't really fostered much faith in the world around me. Any woman who keeps a baseball bat under her mattress under the pretence of 'you'll never know when you might fancy a game' isn't to be trusted, in my opinion. I have in fact woken up to the sound of my mother shouted 'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING' storming down our drive, wielding a bat in one hand and a dog in the other whilst some young ruffians attempted to scale our gate. Needless to say, they scarpered. I'm pretty sure the dog was trying to do the same, but it did come off as menacing rather than terrified, so thats the main thing.

Anyway, the point is, no matter how unlikely and ridiculous it seems, you just don't know when ninjas might descend. How can you? So, with this in mind, I decided to write up a quick, efficient and easy to use guide entitled
'How To Protect Yourself (Or your House) from Ninjas (Or Similar)'
I think brackets in titles are really going to catch on.

So, for the safety and well being of you, your family, and those you know who aren't ninjas, I give you my advice. Use it well.

If you suspect a ninja (or similar) is entering your house, make sure you immediately do the following-

1. Make your bed- I know it would seem like tidying up should be the last thing on your mind at a time like this, but trust me, a proud housewife is a significantly alive housewife. A scrambled bedsheet is the mark of a panicked inhabitant. If you make your bed- you're as good as not home. There's no looking for you. And you also seem like a person who cares about cleanliness, and ninjas appreciate that. They wear all black dont forget- so stains wont show up.

2. Hide in a wardrobe- BUT (and this is the vital part) DON'T CLOSE IT COMPLETELY. Like most University educated people, i learnt almost everything I know from films about pirates. Closed wardrobes is the first place they check. If you leave it a bit open, with some clothes kind of sprawly, its casual-open-chic, cool man, your room is practically having a cigarette its so chilled out.

3. Take your glasses- damn. that probably should have been number one. Don't go back and get your glasses now if you're already in the wardrobe, but if you have them on you things will be a lot easier. I once groped my way downstairs (not in the fun way) whilst checking out a strange door banging noise, and my lack of sight made things such as walls and carpets look rather more like murderers then I would have liked.

4. Phone your mum- as we've discovered with last week's post, phoning the authorities is not always the way. Often, your mum will supply you with a button or a lever that will fix everything. Don't ask me how it works, but they do it.

5. If the lever is out of reach inside the wardrobe, have a quick search for narnia. You just never know, and it does always seem to turn up at the most bloody useful times.

6. The ninja will be, by now, inside the room, searching for golden dabloons, his long lost father and the peace of mind that means he can go back to his village and carve that chair he's always wanted to carve. Its unlikely that these things will be in your room. Best to keep as silent as you can. If you have difficulty doing this, try to imagine that someone has just said to you 'yeah, but don't you think creationism just sort of makes sense?' And do the silence you would do after that.

7. Its nearly over now. The ninja, having spotted the cunningly made bed, will assume he is alone, and will therefore be off his guard. At this point, you CHARGE the ninja, bursting out of the wardrobe with your bat and dog screaming 'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?'

8. Oh, and plant a bat and dog inside the wardrobe first. Unless you can source them quickly from Narnia at the time.

9. Chase out ninja with a triumphant battle cry, safe in the knowledge that you have defended your home, your livelihood, and actually did a bit of tidying up for once.

10. and finally, tighten up the wires on your chicken coup. There's no need for two night's battle in a row.

Yakmonster x

This post might save your life

I'd just like to take a second today, to have a little talk about fire alarms.

Now. Like many, my first introduction to the fire alarm was when an alarmingly wide bear came to talk to us in primary school about fire and the alarms thereof. Not a real bear. Sadly. If a bear really came to talk to us, I have a feeling the topic of conversation wouldn't actually be paramount to our entertainment. Anyway, for some reason, this bear (Tony The Fire Bear, or similar) was really, really interested in our being good at investigating kitchens, standing on chairs and pressing buttons. Which was funny, because almost every other adult at the time was telling us quite firmly not to do any of these things.

My second introduction was later on in primary school where, apparently having abandoned the fool-proof bear method, the school instead instructed us to crawl through a tent that had been filled with smoke, and get to the exit. Outside. A massive smoke filled tent. When you're ten. Like a ninja. Instead of doing maths. Now I dont know about anyone else in that class, but I spent most of the next couple of weeks looking hopefully at the stove whenever my dad cooked bacon.

My third introduction was some time after this, when I was about 15, I cooked some sausages on my grill (hold on, it gets even better). Why you ask? Because I wanted some sausages. Oh sorry, you didn't- I thought you asked, never mind. Anyway, I was making these sausages, turned away to look fleetingly at a flower perhaps, or a soft and lovely napkin, and when I moved my eyes back the oven was on fire. I stood looking at it for a moment, stangely sober, and then tried quite hard to remember which type of fire it was that made the girl on the advert have her face all burned off when she poured water on it. Chip pan fire, right. I wasn't making chips. But wait- does that advert mean just chips? Or things in pans? or.. or.. a specific type of oil? Oh God. Oh God I dont know. And it turns out there's nothing quite like having an oven casually on fire in the background to make your thoughts less than laser precise.I got the phone, and hesitated for a moment. The fire waited patiently. Did I call 999, or my Mum? Who would consider themselves the expert on things of this matter?
'Hello, Kay Ralph?'
'Hi Mum,'
'Hi Tash. '
'Hi. Erm.-'
'You're up are you? Finally? Have you fed the dog?'
'Well- yes. Yes, but Mum'
'Dont give him the cheese thats on the side.'
I looked at the side. The cheese had melted and was turning a blackened grey.
'No I won't. Mum. Mum- the oven's on fire.'
'What?'
'The oven's on fire.'
'The oven's on fire?'
I suddenly got a strange urge to turn this into a song and launch into a chorus of 'ohhh the oven's on fire and what can ya dooo'. Luckily, I resisted.
'Oh my God. OK. Get out of the house. Get Barney. Get Barney and get out of the house.
I looked at the oven. It looked happily back at me.
'It doesn't seem to be spreading, Mum.'
'It, it doesn't, oh god. Ok, Ok, listen to me.'

She then proceeded to guide me through a process I now cannot quite recall (probably due to some horrible mind trauma repression) which ended in me pressing a button and the fire going out- if only I'd listened to Tony back then, maybe I wouldn't even have needed help. Damn ninja replacement system.

Anyway, my point is, though you've probably already guessed it, fire alarms are fun. Which is why when, last night in Claycroft (a halls of residence at my Uni) when the fire alarm went off, I happily donned some boots, grabbed my keys and jaunted off to the exit. The fact that it also meant interuppting my watching of 'Bedtime Stories'- the worst Adam Sandler film since the last Adam Sandler film (think Nights at the Museum with slightly less money), was another reason for the spring in my step.
Me and my friends Katherine and Annalisa stood outside the building and breathed in the cooling night air. This, apparently, was the worst possible thing we could have done. The Offical Fire Woman of the building, who had mysteriously been yelling at a tree for the previous five minutes, stormed up to us and yelled 'what are you doing here? hmmm? this isn't the regulated fire spot!' She sounded very official, and her face was full of angry officialness. Unfortunatly, she was wearing a baby pink dressing gown with a floral design, some hairy slippers and very little else. Maybe she thought if she shouted loud enough, she's shout some clothes on.
'I have no idea where that is.' I said, very truthfully.
Her face turned red enough to almost be its own hat (almost).
'It's ROUND THE CORNER!' she yelled.
Now I don't do very well with people who are very rude for no reason.
'Ok, well THANKS FOR ALL THE HELP!' I shouted back and smiling at her hat-face off we skipped to the area where fire couldnt penetrate. Unlike where we were standing originally, which was by a large lake.

So, arriving at the Designated Fire Area, which stood proudly in its captial letters, we made casual friends with others who were victims of the fire. I thought about saying how I bet this was the kind of sitation that made people in concentration camps make friends. But then I didn't. Instead I stood making narky comments that amused me and me alone, and waited for my friend in the pink to show up. She did. It turned out, shockingly, that not everything on the world was on fire, and we could go back in. As we started to heave back, an official man in a glowly coat asked loudly 'who is in room 30, block A?'. A sinister silence fell. Slowly, as we all watched with judging eyes, a girl in a beige coat and confused and shocked expression lifted a hand shakingly. The perpetrator. Being as angry as we could be for a group of people who weren't saying or doing anything, we began to drift off. And the girl was taken away, presumably to be punished by Fire Woman opening her robe in front of her.

This story has a point, and it is this. On the way back to the building, I found 20p on the ground. I picked it up, and put it in my pocket. I might put it towards a bag of crisps. See what good come of fire alarms? Oh and also, on the day I burnt the oven down, mum got us another puppy to calm us all down. Probably should have mentioned that earlier.

YakAttack

Thank Goodness, eh?

Welcome, you glittery little handbag you,

Its what you've all been waiting for. The Return of Natasha Yak.

Whilst I trekked the crazy town that was noo york city, with nothing but a dodgy accent, a see through dress and a song in my hair, I never imagined I'd have such an impact on the world. Tens, literally tens of you joined me on my quest, and I like to believe, bonded not only with me, but with each other, along the way. Relationships were kindled, my mum nearly had several heart attacks, I still have a few tender answermachine messages from Abdahl- there's talk of a motion picture, but lets not get ahead of ourselves.

So, after 6 weeks of Manhatten Madness, what could possibly tempt a sprightly young reader such as yourself to delve back into the reccesses of my mind? Well. Sure you've had the secrets of New York displayed like a naked sandwich, but what about the secrets of... Warrington? And possibly even Wigan- (Mum might need me to go with her to the vets later- my dog Barney is getting seriously skilled at weeing on antiques). Yeah? YEAH!

Ok I'll be honest. I'm bored. I'm dangerously bored. And I have a dissertation due in less than a month. The only thing that makes any sense is to start a blog. And anyway, I have a few bones to pick with this so called planet 'earth' (if that is its real name), that I'd like opinions on. So consider this my page of me talking about things that probably don't really matter, but DO actually matter in a massive way. And if I somehow end up near Astley or Bootle, so much the better. (Those reading from the South- dont worry. These places you've never heard of can't come and get you.)

So. I'd like to raise a question.

There's been a lot of films lately focussing on the 'bromance'- I'm talking the Judd Apattow films, the Knocked Up, Superbad, The Hangover. We've all seen them, we've all laughed, cried, all wondered at how a cinema can physically charge £5.80 for a box of 7 nachos and some cheese sauce and not consider itself a criminal establishment. My question is, and I know it seems obvious but I dont care, where are the girls? really? A Judd Apatow film (not including Funny People, which i've not seen) seems to go thusly-

A weird looking but hilarious guy + Another fatter weird looking but hilarious guy + A slightly disapproving but unbelievably attractive girl + an adventure she has no part in= Lots of male bonding, drunken frolicking and the happy conclusion of sex to come.

Is this an unfair judgement? I realise the 'point' of these films isn't 'wahey, all the genders ROCK! Every one of them!' But I do wonder why these film-makers don't seem to have any friends who are girls. It is because they are 'geeks but awesome in their own way'? Cos I gotta say, I have a lot of geekish but awesome in their own way boy friends, who I love and honour dearly not only as a human, but qutie literally as a girl. Is this a strange and freakish occurance, or have I been deluding myself all these years? When I walk out of a room to get beer or crisps, or a pen, or any number of the small objections that can fit inside my tiny girlish hands, do people turn and ask 'ok sure she exists, there's no doubt about that, but seriously, why is she here?'

The only reason I ask this question is because I had a conversation with some male friends whilst we were getting ready to go out to manchestaaa, where we were discussing the film 'The Hangover'. I merely stated that I didn't think the film was hilarious, more a jazzed up version of 'Dude, where's my car?' - a claim that I dont think is massively unfair. Come on. It wasn't that good. The bit with the tiger was pretty cool. And thats about it. And I was shot down like a mis-directed sparrow-hawk being attacked by a squid. The criticism was that 'you're a girl, so you don't really understand nights out like that.' Admittedly, the person who said these words is a complete moron. But it did get me thinking (NOT like Carrie Twat. NOT EVER LIKE HER)

I'm not questioning whether girls have the capacity to act like complete dicks, be freakin hilarious, drink, vomit, bond and looking like complete arseholes in front of the people they are attempting to seduce. I know this to be true. I painfully, shamefully, scars-on-my-legs-and-arms-and-more-importantly-in-my-soul know this to be horrifyingly true. My question is, why doesn't the world? Are these films just not getting written, do you reckon? Genuinely?

Personally, I have a theory:
that men and women will never be equal until boys believe, and i mean really, properly believe, in their minds and brains, that women poo. Simple as that. Until that toilet pedestal gets knocked down, the women of show bizzz and the women in boy's hearts will be the ones with the shiny teeth, the hair of spun gold and no history of bowel movements. Yeah sure, you can make pay the same, you can fight for women's sports, you can do all of these things that I can't think of another example for. But I'm telling you now. Until boys relinquish the poo-secret, we ladies aint got nothin.

Perhaps next time I shall have a tale to tell of Birchwood Asda and its hidden fascist depths, or the truth behind the Gregg's sausage and bean pasty, but until then, its just an angry rant about the lack of my people on the big screen. Carrie Twat and Co Do Not Count. Any takers?

Yakky x

so, its come to the end

So. Here we are. Weird, isn't it? Feels a bit like when you have to do a big massive family goodbye after a heavy christmas, but kind of when you know the car isn't quite packed yet, you might bump into Aunty Pam in the hall 5 minutes after doing the big 'goodbye and thanks for the comb' thing with her, and so you keep it all quite short and jovial just in case, even though you might very well never ever see them again. Until next Christmas. Thats how I'm feeling about doing my final NY post.

And yes I finally did it. I promised I would, so I did- yesterday a pyschic came up to me and Lyds on the street and insisted that there was something about my past she just had to know more about. And by 'know more about', she of course meant 'let you pay for me to know more about'. It was 5 dollars, she said. Funnily enough I had a 5 dollar bill in my hand. Fate? God? L.Ron Hubbard? who knows. But you blog munchers demanded it, and so I could do nothing except obey.
So. Whats in my future? Who bloody knows. What a jip. Why do I keep letting strangers tell me how much is wrong with my personality? Last week or whatever it was my graph mirror that was getting me down in team Scientology, this week its my aura. Oh yeah, my aura is pretty bad. It should be gold, and apparently mine is grey. GREY. But, I was to discover, there was at least a logical reason for this.
'When you were concieved, somebody put a curse on your parents. A curse!'
Oh right.
'Its because of this curse that you live your life under this terrible negativity. You can feel it right? Right under your ribs?'
I could feel something. But I'm pretty sure it was a sinking feeling of wondering how much icecream i could have eaten for my five dollars worth. But still, stick it out eh?
'so my parents were... were cursed?'
She nodded seriously, staring at my palm.
'Oh dear.. thats.. thats rubbish. Erm. who cursed them?'
She peered at my hand. I did the same. Unless the culprits were called creasy mcfinger nail and Thumbs Wristington, I didn't think I would be able to see a name. Apparently she felt the same.
'I cant see right now. The negativity blocking it is too strong. You need.. you need. You need salt. From the seven seas. And a crystal. Only then, when I help you, will you be rid of this curse.'
I had a feeling this wasn't an offer for a charity cleansing.
'How much money do you have to start this journey?'
I was right. I smiled quite firmly, and said 'Oh, none. I'm afraid. None at all.'
'I can see in your face you are about to come into come money!'
Oh well thats very convienient.
'Yes, well, even so, I think I'll just live.. as I am.. for now. Thank you though. For the offer.'
'You dont want to find them? Find the ones who put the curse upon you? Caused your aura such pain?'
'n....no. Not. Not right now. I'm flying home in a couple of days so.. so that'll... you know, take up quite a lot of my time. Thanks again.'
OH though. She did tell me something else. Something MUCH better and really relieved a lot of worries that had been building up in my head. She told me that the person I'm in a relationship with now is the person i'm going to marry, and we're going to have two children. What a load off my mind. Anyone whose been wondering how it's all going to end with me and Jack- worry no more. Its all sorted. Though sadly, Jack didn't seem quite as excited as I'd hoped when I explained all this to him on skype later. When I told proudly how we were scientifically destined to marry and have two children, he replied with
'yeah, I probably don't even have swimmers.'
Which rather put a dampner on things. What the hell kind of celebration is that? Oh well. If she's as good a psychic as I think she is, we'll see who's laughing in the end.

Since I've come to the end of my 6 week jaunt into the loud unknown, I feel that now is a good time to reflect upon what has passed, and perhaps try and draw up some useful things I have discovered for the future. God. Can't believe its been 6 weeks since Abdahl offered me that Tuna wrap. This is pure and utter madess. Here we go then, lets see what happens here.

1. If you need a chat, head for a park and try and do something very much on your own- Company will find you.
2. Violins are a very bad impulse buy- especially for the surrounding customers.
3. Friends can come from unlikely places, including inside walls.
4. Piles of wood are sacred in some cultures.
5. Fish are brilliant.
6. Engrams are terrible
7. You can pay to watch penguins swim about in poo- other penguins' poo.
8. There are disadvantages to not having a full length mirror- Naked based disadvantages
9. There are advantages to not having a full length mirror- potentially lucrative naked advantages.
10. The smell of franchised joy can make you do anything
11. Yellow shoes should be given to those only with the power to control them.
12. Line drawings of girls on ponies can be the most disturbing thing you've ever seen- in the correct massive eye context.
13. Lydia King knows how to do New York properly.
14. I simply know how to find the mentals.
15. The King of the Jews is alive and well and awaiting a court hearing.
16. There is so much loud in New York that the sound of a weeping lesbian becomes more background humming than anything.
17. Never begin a conversation with a stranger with the words 'were you the one who raped...'
18. In theory- I care about cricket.
19. Massive pants can be strangely liberating.
20. Buying a cell phone can sometimes be classed as unwanted therapy.
and finally, of course
21. Never accept a tuna wrap from a stranger. Who knows what else you might be accepting.

Thank you, those who are reading, to have cared enough about my exploits to have come with me to the bitter end. For those who didnt read every post, you are a bastard. And you probably should.

Who knows, I might continue it on, though I'd imagine its a lot trickier blogging about the people you spent time with, when they are the people that read it. Hmmm.

For the last time then, this is Natasha Yak, fledgling scientologist, amateur nude model and head journalist at Hamlet and Cheese Sandwich, signing off. I'll see you on the other side.

xxx